#fromthecosmos

Meg is used to facing the trapper. He was the first killer. For a long time, the only one. She has a lot of experience; it lets her know where he likes to put his traps with her eyes practically closed.

She knows a lot about him. The rough sounds that come from behind his mask when he’s right on her ass. How far he can reach. That he smells like tar, iron, and blood. The span of his hand over her back.

That’s why it makes her so mad that he caught her before the first generator can even be done.

Instead of trapping the shack window, the pallet, or even the thick grass along its edges, he’s somehow figured out how to hide one in the middle of the torn-up floor. She hadn’t even had the last-second realization of seeing it too late. One second she was cutting through the building. The next her leg screamed with pain as the bear trap bit down.

It hurts. It always hurts.

He stands over her and she glares back. The sweat on the back of her neck goes cold. Everyone else is too far away to help her. Her own blood warms her fingers, makes the rusty metal of the trap’s mouth too slippery to pry open. The sight of her own torn up skin and muscle has long since stopped being horrifying, but the trap has sunk in really deep. It makes her lightheaded.

The trapper lifts his cleaver, readying to strike her, then hesitates. He stands there and waits.

Meg manages to wiggle her wet fingers between her leg and the trap. She can’t help crying, tears slipping out, like she’s forgotten everything Jake taught her about staying quiet.

She wants to say something that will hurt him, get past that thick mask, but all that comes out are whimpers.

When she finally gets the trap’s jaws spread wide enough to click back open, arms straining, the relief is short-lived. Instead of being able to jump back on her feet and run again, she slams into the floorboards. Her leg isn’t working like it usually does after stepping in a trap.

Sadistic dickhead. He knew it would happen; he’d honed his traps to do it.

Before she can do more than gasp into the grimy floor, he picks her up.

His big shoulder presses hard into her, crushes her belt up against her stomach. Meg struggles, beats her fists against him. His skin is hot and rough, with barely scabbed cuts and little bits of metal poking out that she avoids touching.

There’s nothing new about the situation. She’s gone through it too many times. He’ll take her down into the basement, leave her within its screaming walls while he sets more bear traps for anyone brave enough to come. It’s a death sentence.

Maybe it’s the way he stood there and watched. Maybe it’s the depressing thought of dying on her first hook. Either way, Meg gets her hand on his face. The mask is as rough and cold as dried bone, but the skin underneath his jaw is smooth. Desperation gives her sudden strength and she forces her fingers between the mask and his chin and pulls up as hard as she can.

He abruptly stops when the mask pulls free. It slips out of her fingers. She hears it bounce down the basement stairs three times before skittering away.

The trapper doesn’t move, but Meg does. She kicks her way out of his hold, slipping down to the floor. She pushes away from him and doesn’t realize her mistake until it’s too late.

She’s upside down, then something hard hits into her back, throws her around until she crashes against a wall. Her head hurts. Her leg still hurts. Her entire body hurts.

Just like the mask, she’s bounced down the steps before reaching the landing over halfway down. It lays less than a foot away. Stares up at her.

Meg doesn’t want to check, but she knows the trapper is still standing at the top of the stairs. She can hear him. See him, from the corner of her eye.

Hesitantly, Meg looks upwards. From the darkness of the basement, he’s lit up by the cold, blue moonlight shining through the shack’s door. At first, she can’t tell the difference. His head is almost the same shape as the mask.

But when he takes slow, heavy steps down the stairs, the light changes and she can see it.

His face.

He looks… kind of normal.

The skin on his face is cracked like it is on his arms and chest. All hair burnt away. A huge scar splits from below one eye down to his chin, crossing over his mouth.

Besides that, his features are strong. Square jaw, thin lips, heavy brow. Like a man’s, not a monster’s.

His eyes meet hers. They aren’t a weird color. They don’t glow. They’re just eyes.

They still make her shiver.

The trapper reaches the last step before the landing and pauses. When he leans down, the leather of his overalls stretches and rubs together. Meg presses back against the wall behind her, draws her legs up and holds her arms out in front of her.

“Wait!” Meg exclaims in panic.

He’s breathing heavy. Without the mask, it’s unmuffled and loud. His expression changes, brow lifting. A silent I’m listening.

“Uh,” Meg stalls, brain going terrifyingly blank.

He reaches for her.

“Can’t you let me go?” she blurts.

He stops.

“You want to be free?” he asks. The sound of his voice shocks her more than the question.

She manages to get out a, “Yes!”

“Name the price.”

He looks amused. Meg knows she has nothing to offer in place of an easy sacrifice. But. Like a man, she thinks, and she blurts out the first thing that pops in her head.

“How about a kiss?”

The amusement falls away, replaced by surprise as his eyes widen.

“A kiss?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” says Meg, braver than she feels. “When’s the last time you’ve been kissed?”

He stares down at her. She can tell he’s thinking about it when his gaze lowers, narrows in on her mouth.

Meg licks her lips.

“Acceptable.”

Then he watches her, waiting.

Meg swallows hard and wipes at the wetness on her face before letting her legs slide down. She gets up on her knees. The wound on her leg aches and she ignores it. Keeping her hands to herself, she leans up.

Presses her lips over his.

They don’t move at all, his mouth an even line as she pushes hers forward. His lips are very warm, firm with only a slight give when she dares to press a little harder. This close, it’s hard not to notice his huge presence. Not just the size of his body, but the weight of his attention and how it makes her heart race. She moves her lips a little more, against the soft dip in the middle where the scar halves his lips.

For a kiss that means her life, it’s gentle.

Meg leans back slowly.

“You are satisfied?” he asks.

“Are… are you?” Meg questions, growing confused. What does her satisfaction have to do with it?

“Yes,” is all he says as he stands with a leathery squeak. She almost yelps when he lifts her up by her armpits and puts her back on her feet. The skin of her arms tingles where his big knuckles had pressed against them. He moves aside and the stairway is clear.

Meg quickly limps up the stairs. The moonlight outside promises a second start, a chance to get past the trial and through one of the exit gates. Something makes her look back.

He’s on the landing, staring down at the mask held within his hands.

He looks up at her and it’s as startling as touching an exploding generator.